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When I wake again, the soft gray of dawn filters through the blinds. I slip quietly from the bed, careful not to wake him, and pad toward the kitchen. The familiar scent of coffee fills the air as I pour a steaming cup, cradling it between my hands. I step out onto the back deck, the wood cool under my bare feet. Crossing my legs, I sink into the quiet of the early morning, the sun just beginning to kiss the horizon.
My uncle’s words echo in my mind—trust your gut.He’s right. I’ve always trusted my intuition, even when it led me down paths that made no sense to anyone else. I close my eyes, letting the warmth of the sun soak into my skin. Slowly, the noise in my head fades. The jumble of doubts and fears quiets, replaced by a steady, calm resolve. Deep down, I know what I need to do. I don’t fully understand why it’s guiding me this way, but I’ll follow it.
Time slips away as I sit there, grounded in the stillness. It isn’t until I hear the soft creak of the door and feel Lion’s presence beside me that I finally stir. I open my eyes, exhale, and know it’s time to move.
“You okay?” he asks, actually sounding concerned.
“Yes,” I say, my eyes finding him as I unfold my legs and stand. “Let’s go inside and talk,” I say, going back inside the house and taking a seat at the kitchen table.
“My name is Veronique Price.” I pause, letting the weight of it settle between us. “My husband is Franklin Price III.” The name rolls off my tongue, practiced, formal—just like our marriage.
It wasn’t love that brought us together, not at first. It was old money, the kind that keeps your circle tight and your choices predictable. In our world, the path was laid out long before we ever met. We kept the wealth where it belonged—within the family, within the circle. Marrying Franklin was a no-brainer. He was decent, after all—handsome, kind enough, a man with ambition.
But ambition can be a double-edged sword. Franklin wanted more than the comfort of inherited wealth. He wanted to make his own mark, to prove he could stand on his own. That’s when the cracks began to show. He poured money into startup after startup, each venture bleeding our finances dry.
I had been careful, though. Before we married, I tucked my own money into a private account he couldn’t touch. We shared a joint account, a household account—separate, like everything else in our lives. Still, I watched as Franklin drained what he had, chasing his dreams.
I breathe out, shifting in my seat as memories of my mother surface. “My mom was diagnosed with Huntington’s when I was twelve. We knew, even then, that it would take her. So, she prepared me, piece by piece, for a life without her.”
A small, sad smile tugs at my lips. “But there was my uncle too—my mother’s half-brother. My grandmother had him young, so he was raised by his father’s family, with just enough money to get by. Summers, he’d come up to DC. My mom would bring me to see him. I doubt my grandfather even knew he existed.”
I feel the warmth of those memories, the way my uncle would sweep me away to Baltimore. “He showed me a different world. Taught me how to move through life, how to trust my instincts, and how to see what others couldn’t. He scared my mom half to death, but I lived for those moments with him.”
I pause, the image of him fading as quickly as it had come. “When my uncle died, it was like a piece of her died too. Her health nosedived right as Franklin’s casino dreams took off. He needed investors, and he found them. I stayed out of his business, just like I kept my accounts separate, but on the opening night, he insisted I be there.”
My smile widens, a flicker of something fond. “I hate the spotlight. I’d rather be reading or meditating, anything buttalking to people. But I went. I got dressed up, put on a smile, and for once, I had fun. I played a few games, even won a little money.”
The memory of that last good night at the casino flickered like a dying ember, a brief reprieve before everything spiraled. It wasn’t long after that Franklin changed. His once steady demeanor became fraught with paranoia, his actions erratic. I watched him unravel, each day more distant, more reckless. At the same time, my mother’s health rapidly declined, and I found myself at her side more often, trying to savor every last moment.
Franklin buried himself in the casino while I braced myself for the inevitable. When my mother passed, the loss was crushing but not unexpected. She had prepared for it. Her funeral was arranged down to the smallest detail—simple, efficient. We laid her to rest next to my father, just as she’d wanted.
The inheritance came months later. Everything—her money, her properties—fell to me. My uncle had no children of his own, so I was left with all the pieces of our family’s legacy. Packing up her house became my new routine, a way to keep myself busy, to avoid confronting the dark cloud that was Franklin’s growing desperation.
It wasn’t long before the tension between us hit a boiling point. Franklin started asking for access to my accounts, subtle at first, but then his demands grew sharper, angrier. The arguments escalated, his frustration boiling over into rage. For the first time, I felt a chill of fear around him, something I had never expected in our marriage.
My uncle had once told me about his best friend, Jacob—a man he trusted with his life and a man he said I could rely on if I ever needed help. But I had never met him. He left me a photo of the two of them together, but I hesitated. I didn’t want to seemlike I was overreacting. So, I kept quiet, determined to handle things on my own.
After I finally wrapped up my mother’s affairs, I returned home a day early. As I slipped in through the back door, I heard voices—heated, tense. My steps slowed as I strained to listen, my heart pounding in my chest. Franklin was in the living room, arguing with someone. I edged closer, catching snippets of the conversation.
Franklin had gambled away more than just our money. He had skimmed from the casino, and now his main investor had come to collect. The man's voice was cold, filled with a deadly promise. He gave Franklin months to repay him, but now his patience had run out. “I’m going to kill you,” the man growled.
My blood ran cold. I stepped around the corner, ready to intervene, when my breath caught in my throat. Standing there was Jacob—my uncle’s best friend, the man I had only seen in that faded photograph.
“Jacob?” The name slipped out before I could stop myself, and I instantly regretted it. His eyes flicked toward me just long enough for Franklin to make his move. The crack of the gunshot echoed in the room, and I froze. My mind refused to register what had just happened. Jacob crumpled to the floor, his blood pooling beneath him.
I stood there, staring at Franklin in disbelief, my body numb. He yelled something, but it sounded far away, muffled by the shock ringing in my ears. “Help me with the body,” he shouted, his voice snapping me back into reality.
Before I could think, my feet were moving, my hands trembling as I followed his orders. He had just killed someone—my uncle’s best friend—and expected me to help clean it up like it was nothing. I went to the police, but by the time they arrived, Franklin was gone. No trace of him. No trace of Jacob, no body, no blood, nothing. The cold stare Franklin gave me as I stoodnext to the cops was enough to tell me what would happen the moment we were alone. My skin prickled with fear. He didn’t need to say a word—I knew I was next. When the police left, I didn’t wait around. I slipped into the night, my heart hammering in my chest as I ran. I didn’t stop running for days. Twice, I got caught, barely managing to escape, but then Uncle Lenn’s voice echoed in my head, reminding me of everything he taught me. I stopped running in a blind panic and made a plan. I headed for New Orleans to find Judah. If anyone could help me with Franklin, it was him.
But finding Judah wasn’t as easy as I thought. Nola’s streets seemed to swallow him whole. I asked around, but either people had never heard of him, or the ones who did, didn’t trust me enough to say anything. Days passed, and I was beginning to lose hope.
One night, I wandered into the Quarter, exhausted and hungry, and stumbled into what I thought was a hotel. The dim lights and velvet curtains gave it an air of luxury, but I quickly realized I wasn’t in a hotel—I was in a brothel. That’s where I met Ms. Adelaide. She had a sharp tongue and a quick wit, the kind of woman who commanded respect.
At first, I judged her and the life she led, but she wasn’t one to let me stay in my ignorance. She set me straight real quick.
“These girls are doing what they gotta do to survive, and they not hurting nobody,” she’d said, her voice cutting through my pretenses. “Not everyone’s born with a silver spoon stuck in they mouth, Ms. Inheritance.”
Her words hit hard, and she was right. I couldn’t deny the truth staring me in the face. Over time, we grew close. She confided in me that she was ready to retire and shut the brothel down. But by then, I’d seen things differently. These women weren’t just surviving—they were fighting for their futures. So when she asked me to help run the business, I didn’t hesitate.
